


Insinuation

by Jenny_Starseed



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Taking care of minor injuries, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenny_Starseed/pseuds/Jenny_Starseed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday won’t let anyone make insinuations about him and his bagman, even if there is a hint of truth to it</p><p>Written for Obscure and British Comment Fest:  Morse/Thursday.  One of them gets in a fight and the other has to patch them up afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insinuation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Obscure and British Comment Fest for tarathemeerkat who asked for a Morse/Thursday fic where one of them gets in a fight and the other patches them up afterwards. Prompt: http://lost-spook.livejournal.com/325603.html?thread=4189411#t4189411
> 
> It's the first fic I've ever written in this fandom but it sat on my hard drive for months before I decided to dust it off and post it.

The narrow stairway to Morse’s bedsit was lit by a dim light bulb. Thursday felt his limbs ache as he followed Morse up the narrow staircase to Morse’s bedsit. It was lit by a single dim light bulb casted long shadows on the wall that made Thursday feel like he was in a cheap American noir film. The scenario was something out of a sodding film noir: battered police inspector taken to his bagman’s dingy flat to be treated for cuts and bruises after a bar fight. The only odd thing out would be that there would be posh opera playing in Morse’s flat instead of mournful jazz music. 

He watched Morse fumble for his keys. The dim light of the hallway wasn’t helping matters. Eventually, the door opened and Morse held out his hand to present his flat, a silent gesture of exaggerated welcome. Thursday walked in and looked around. The room was predictably small with second hand furniture that was more handed-down than personally chosen by Morse. Morse didn’t seem like the sort of bloke who would put much stock in decorating his flat and personalising his home. 

Morse locked the door and pointed to the run down winged back chair. “Sit.”

Thursday did so. 

“Take off your coat, sir. And your jacket and shirt.”

“Morse, I’m fine. I’m mostly bruised and there was no knife or any weapons involved.”

Morse crossed his arms. “I just want to check. You would ask the same of me if I were in your position.”

Morse directed Thursday to a well-worn chair by a small table. “Sit down. I can make you tea if you want any.”

“That’s kind of you, Morse. But I think I’ll need something stronger.”

Thursday sat down and leaned against the headrest. The sound of clinking glasses could be heard and a moment later, a glass of whiskey appeared within his eye-line. Thursday took it graciously and downed it quickly. He closed his eyes to enjoy the warm sensation flood his system. When he opened them again, he saw Morse rummaging through his cupboards to find medical supplies. Plasters, cotton balls and a bottle of Whiskey.

Morse sat directly across from him on the low coffee table that was strewn with newspapers and crossword puzzles. Morse tilted Thursday’s chin upwards, inspecting the cut on his brow. “It looks to be a superficial cut. No stitches needed I’m afraid.”

“How unfortunate, I was looking forward to that.”

Morse dabbed the cotton ball with whiskey and applied it to the cut on his brow. Thursday winced.

Morse frowned. “Sorry. I should have warned you it would sting.”

“No need to apologise, Morse. I’ve been in enough scraps in my youth to be unfamiliar with this routine.”

At the corner of his eye, Thursday could see Morse hesitate for a moment before he cautiously resumed his careful care of Thursday’s cut above the eye. Anticipating the sting, Thursday closed his eyes and thought of the comfort of his pipe and evening newspaper that he’ll be indulging in once he gets home. Most men thought of vacations and pornographic images when they try to divert their attention away from their troubles. For Thursday, it was the basic comforts of home. Sometimes it was Win’s cooking. Or the warm hugs of his children. Thursday vaguely wondered what Morse thought of. 

He opened his eyes and saw the record player. Of course. How obvious. He glanced at some of the records by his foot. There were a few operas he didn’t recognise but the ones he did recognise were of the overly sensual and dramatic kind. The kind that you would close your eyes and lose yourself in its sensual pleasures that was almost sexual in their dramatic build-up and release. Thursday could just imagine Morse sitting on the very chair Thursday was sitting in, his eyes closed as he let the music wash the tension away from his limbs leaving him loose and boneless on the chair. He would be in his shirt sleeves with the first few buttons of his shirt undone. His features would soften into an expression of innocent beauty that Thursday would catch brief glimpses of while they drove together in the car. The golden fading afternoon light would add colour to his pale complexion that was the result long hours and a lack of proper sleep. It would be an intimate image that only a lover would be privy to in such an innocent pose of unguarded rest that hinted of a silent melancholy. 

In his own way, Morse was a handsome lad who had an odd kind of disarming awkward charm. As far as Thursday knew, Morse didn’t seem like the sort that would have girls over. He couldn’t imagine the boy being able to string enough coherent words together to chat up a girl. But this was no reason the unfounded words of that smarmy git Everett Hampton. Thursday couldn’t remember what he said when he punched the young man for his unfounded insinuations when Morse went off to get their drinks. To be honest, Thursday didn’t remember anything Hampton said after the words “Morse”, “cock sucker” and “fucking shirt-lifter” were uttered. The next few minutes were nothing but blind fury, pain and breaking and bruising flesh until with surprising strength, Morse pulled him off of Hampton. He still remembered the blood covered sneer of Hampton that was asking for a sequel to the furious undignified fight Morse had just stopped. But Morse’s steady and strong grip on his arm prevented that. 

It was as if Morse had deduced Thursday’s thoughts when he asked, “What did he say?”

“Who?”

“Hampton.”

The name lingered uncomfortably between them. Morse stopped dabbing the cut on his eyebrow before he groped around the small table for a plaster. Before he put the plaster on, Morse stopped and regarded Thursday curiously. Thursday was tempted to avert his eyes but that would not do. The boy was more perceptive than he liked at this moment. 

“Did he say something about me?” he finally asked. Thursday’s silence was telling enough. Morse shook his head and smiled. “I can’t imagine what anyone would say about me that would have got you so upset.”

Thursday tightened his lips in an attempt to hide and hold in his anger. It mustn’t have worked because Morse had that enigmatic look on his face again. It took a moment to realise this was the look Morse had when he was on the scent of a solution to a tricky problem. It left Thursday feeling naked. Thursday averted his eyes to look at the record player. 

“Ah,” was all that Morse said. It lingered between them, seemingly all-knowing. “With all due respect sir, but being called rude names is something to be expected from people like Hampton. I assume it comes with the job. I wouldn’t expect you to get into a fight on my account, sir.”

“There are rude names and then there are names that deserve a good kick in the arse, if you could excuse my language,” said Thursday. “What he called you was simply unforgiveable.”

The corner of Morse’s mouth lifted. It was the closest thing to a smirk that Thursday had ever seen grace Morse’s face. “You were defending my honour, sir.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this if I were you,” snapped Thursday. “Mere insinuations have brought down many quality men in this line of work.”

“No. You’re absolutely right,” said Morse, resuming his care of Thursday by putting the plaster gently on his brow. Morse’s blue eyes were fixed on Thursday, watchful for something that was more than mere signs of injury. 

Thursday abruptly got up from the armchair. “Would you need a lift home?”

Thursday put on his coat and patted his pockets to make sure he had his keys. He found them in his left pocket. He looked up to find Morse standing very close to him, his face mere inches away from him.

“You wouldn’t be so angry on my behalf if there wasn’t a hint of truth to Hampton’s rude words,” whispered Morse. Thursday could smell a hint of alcohol on his breath and there was something bold in his pale blue eyes before Morse kissed him, shyly and chastely on the mouth. 

Before Thursday could gather his wits and respond, Morse handed him his hat and pipe and ushered him out the door. Before he turned his back on Thursday to lock the door, Morse shot him a quick toothy smile that did nothing to disguise the bitter banality of his words. “We don’t want to keep the missus waiting and worried, sir.”


End file.
